


Date Night

by BrunetteAuthorette99



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Couch Cuddles, Fluff, Gen, Innuendo, Kissing, M/M, Movie Night, RMS Titanic, Sam Finds Out, Shirtless, Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:32:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2266419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrunetteAuthorette99/pseuds/BrunetteAuthorette99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has a plan (sort of) to find out if Castiel returns his feelings or not -- and it involves cheap beer and a movie that (nearly) changed the course of history. But will Dean find the courage to tell the angel how he feels about him? Will Castiel figure out what Dean is trying to say? And will Sam stay out of the way long enough for Dean's plan to succeed without interference?</p><p>One-shot. Takes place at some point after Episode 6.17 and before Episode 6.19.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Date Night

**Author's Note:**

> Over the summer, I became a tad addicted to _Supernatural_ \-- and when I say "addicted," what I mean is that I swept through seven and a half seasons in the last few weeks of August. Somewhere along the line, I bought myself a first-class ticket to the SS _Destiel_ , and I have been sailing through angsty weather ever since.
> 
> Anyway, I started this fic to deal with my emotions over the end of Season 6 and most of Season 7, and it just got seriously out-of-control from there. Hope you enjoy!

The motel room was as pristine as it could have possibly gotten – both beds made to the best of his limited ability, lumpy couch cleared of extraneous food wrappers, first aid supplies and weapons taken off the table and concealed in bags – and yet Dean couldn’t shake the uneasiness creeping up behind him.

Scanning the room again with a frown on his face, Dean ran through his vague mental checklist. Food wasn’t exactly a problem, and they still had plenty of cheap beer in the cooler stashed by the nightstand. The bathroom was fine as it was; besides, he predicted that the smell reeking from the grimy patterned wallpaper in there wasn’t going to go away any time soon. On the television, muted commercials flashed across the screen; peering over the edge of the couch, he caught sight of the remote resting on one of the armrests and breathed a sigh of relief.

He checked his watch: five minutes to seven. Dean was mildly surprised; it had taken him less time to clean up than he’d estimated. Maybe a minute less, but still _less_.

Especially since Sam had just left not more than ten minutes ago.

_“Hey, Sam. You’re not going to believe this.”_

_Looking up from the papers strewn across one of the beds, Sam raised his eyebrows slightly. “We’ve seen a lot of strange things, Dean. A_ lot _of them.”_

_Dean reached for a tissue and pretended to blow his nose before responding. “How about... killer ghost dinosaurs?”_

_Sam’s eyebrows seemed to fly up into his hairline. “Come again?”_

_“Killer. Ghost. Dinosaurs.” Crumpling the unused tissue and tossing it into the wastebasket, Dean swiveled around Sam’s laptop so the other could see the screen, taking care to not scroll up any further on the webpage. “Some volunteer at a museum over in North Dakota got chomped to death a few nights ago.”_

_“What? No way.” Getting up from the bed, Sam leaned forward to peer at the screen. “A_ dinosaur _museum, huh?” he mused, brows slowly furrowing and sinking to their usual place. “Pretty popular tourist attraction.. until_ this, _at least.”_

_“Yep. And get this: the huge, scary T-Rex skull on display in the front lobby had the guy’s blood all over its teeth.” Dean leaned back in his chair, but then jerked forward again as he sneezed, loudly and messily. Admittedly, it was a needlessly dramatic fake sneeze, but he wasn’t trying to be subtle._

_Sam glanced up, concerned. “Dean? You okay?”_

_“Yeah, I’m fine.” Dean grabbed another tissue to wipe his nose, just for good measure. “What do you think? Strange enough to be our kind of strange?”_

_Sam shrugged. “Maybe. It’s worth checking out, though; Dickinson’s not too far away.” Closing the laptop, he grabbed his coat from the other chair and pulled it on. “I’ll give Bobby a call and see if he’s available; he can drive up in about half a day and meet me there.”_

_Dean frowned warily. “What for?”_ If he calls Bobby, I’m screwed.

 _Sam sighed. “Dean, you’re clearly sick. You’re not in any shape to hunt_ anything, _let alone a... ‘killer ghost dinosaur.’”_

 _“Sammy, you’re being ridiculous. I have a_ cold, _not –” He ducked into the crook of his elbow, covering his mouth as his sentence was lost in a faked fit of coughing._

_“You’re proving my point,” Sam said flatly. “Look, all you need is a little time to recover. Just... stay here for a few days, and Bobby and I can take of whatever’s going on up there.”_

_Dean raised his head, giving his brother a dubious look. “You sure? I feel fine.”_

_“Positive. It shouldn’t be too bad.” Sam sounded like he was convincing himself more than Dean. “I mean, you said the bones are right there at the museum, so if it_ is _a ghost and not, say, a demon or a really imaginative witch, they should be easy to –”_

 _“– salt and burn?” Dean finished incredulously. “Sammy, don’t you think someone might_ miss _a big-ass dinosaur skull?”_

_Sam paused, his mouth twisting in thought. “Well, maybe Bobby will have some idea of what to do with it,” he said finally. “Don’t worry about it; we’ll figure it out.”_

_Dean shrugged.”Suit yourself. Have fun at Jurassic Park.”_

He’d been even more surprised that Sam had bought a story that he’d stolen off of a pathetic tabloid site, let alone him faking a cold – but then again, his little brother was always the more ingenuous of the two of them. In any case, Sam had taken off not long after that (after promising not to damage the Impala in any way) and Dean had gotten to work. Cleaning wasn’t really his thing, but he wanted to make sure the motel room looked semi-orderly for tonight.

And now that it did, there was just one thing left to do.

Opening the cooler and grabbing two bottles of beer before shutting the top again, Dean vaulted over the back of the couch and plopped down on one of the better-stuffed cushions. He grabbed the remote and unmuted the television; the credits of the last movie that had been playing on the channel were just beginning to roll.

“Cas?” He leaned back, letting his neck rest on the back of the couch. “Cas, you there?”

Nothing.

Dean sighed. “Hurry it up, Cas,” he demanded of the cracks in the ceiling. “Get your feathery ass down here; it’s kinda important.” _Do_ not _let all my work be in vain._

After a moment, he heard the soft, muted rush of wind through wings behind him.

* * *

The first things Castiel noticed was that the Winchester’s latest motel room was both unusually clean and one person short. Looking around, the only one he could see was Dean, lounging on the couch in front of him with a beer in his hand.

“Where is Sam?” he asked.

Dean craned his head around, unsurprised to see him there. “Out on a job somewhere,” he answered, swinging his feet up onto the couch and leaning back on the armrest. “Nice of you to show up, by the way.”

The angel frowned. “Why are you not with him?”

“Uh...” From the way Dean’s eyes were darting back and forth, he was searching for an excuse. “I’m sick. Slightly. Sammy thought he’d give me some time off. To recover.”

“I see,” Castiel said after a pause. He wasn’t sure if he believed Dean’s story or not, but he could see no other alternative at the moment. “Why did you call me?”

“We-ell,” Dean said slowly, stretching out even further on the couch, “I’m bored out of my skull here, so I thought I would invite you over for, ah, a guys night in.” He gestured towards the television with his bottle of beer.

The angel followed his gaze towards the screen. Sepia-tinted footage played, showing men and women dressed to the nines, all smiling and waving from the deck of a ship to throngs of people on the docks below. As he watched, he heard a wordless, haunting song in the background, giving the otherwise joyous scene a melancholic note.

He remembered this. Not the music, not everything bleached of color, but –

“The launching of RMS _Titanic_ ,” Castiel murmured, the memories rushing back to him. “Wednesday, the tenth of April, nineteen hundred and twelve.” He glanced back towards Dean, his confusion growing. “Is this... a joke?”

“Nah. Just scrolling through the channels, seeing what was available, and there it was.” Dean shrugged. “After our little run-in with Atropos, I thought it might be good to see it again. Rub it in Balthazar’s face, wherever he is.” He grinned, teeth flashing in his usual cocky smile; it was an expression that never ceased to worry and intrigue the angel in equal measures.

Castiel considered this new development. “And... you want to watch this. With me,” he said slowly, trying to see if he truly understood what was going on.

“Why do you think I called you, Cas?” Dean asked. “Have you ever even seen a movie? And not porn,” he amended, holding up a finger, “but an actual Hollywood _movie_.”

“No, but –”

“Then you’re starting tonight.” Swinging his feet back off the couch, Dean patted the cushion next to him. “C’mon, Cas. Sit down, have a beer, and enjoy the show. Trust me,” he added, the grin growing that much wider, “Balthazar doesn’t know shit about movies, so you shouldn’t be taking recs from him. See it to believe it.”

Castiel hesitated. “Dean, I am _busy,_ ” he tried again, a note of exasperation coming through. “I came because –”

“– you thought we needed help, I get it,” Dean finished. “But it wouldn’t hurt you to take a little break. The war in Heaven will still be there when _Titanic_ ends.”

The angel frowned. “That’s not funny,” he said firmly, but his resolve was already weakened.

Dean sighed. “Just sit down, Cas. The movie’s already started.”

* * *

After a short pause, Castiel walked around to the front of the couch and slowly sat down, elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward to stare intently at the television. With anyone else, it would have looked awkward and uncomfortable, but with the angel, it almost appeared natural – _about as “natural” as Cas can get, anyway_ , Dean thought.

Frankly, he was just amazed that Castiel had stayed this long.

“Want a beer?” he finally asked, picking up and holding out the extra bottle.

“No.” The angel’s attention was firmly fixed on the screen and the submersible navigating the ocean’s darkness.

Dean shrugged and put the bottle beside the couch, then took a swig from the one he had already opened. Leaning back and draping one arm over the side, he focused on the movie – or tried to, anyway; it was getting difficult now that Castiel was sitting not two feet away. He was beginning to regret his telling the angel all that time ago to mind his personal space.

 _Alright, just stay calm, Dean,_ he told himself, fingers tightening around the neck of the beer bottle. _You didn’t engineer a whole freaking date night with an angel just to chicken out now._

“Why are we doing this, Dean?” Castiel didn’t so much as turn from the television.

“Because we can,” Dean said flippantly, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. “Besides, when’s the last time we spent time together? Not with Sam or Bobby, but just us?” He winced internally at the last sentence. _God, Dean, could you sound any more like a girl?_

Thankfully, the angel didn’t seem to notice. “The last time we spent time together, you took me to a...” Lines crinkled around his eyes as he searched for the right phrase. “A... _den of inequity_.”

Dean chuckled. “Good times.” He’d never seen Cas so flustered and panicked, and it had been both hilarious and slightly adorable.

“If I recall correctly, we had to leave rather suddenly to avoid making a scene,” Castiel mused. “I... had tried to tell one of the... _young ladies_ that it wasn’t her fault her father left her.” He shrugged: one simple lift of the shoulders. “He just hated his job at the post office.”

“Like I said: good times.” Dean shook his head, smiling at the memory. “God, I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard in my life.”

The angel turned slightly, his head tilting as he scrutinized Dean. “Do you consider your life to be that miserable?” he asked. “Enough so that you regard that experience as humorous?”

“Well, Cas, it kind of has been. So, yeah: it _was_ pretty damn funny.”

Castiel blinked.

“Not you,” the other added hastily, suddenly fearing that maybe he’d said the wrong thing. “Just the situation.”

The angel nodded. “I see.” With that, he turned back to the television.

 _Great._ Not for the first time, Dean found himself wishing that Castiel could be more expressive – _maybe move at least_ one _muscle in his face per year,_ he thought, taking another sip of his beer. _Or do something besides staring profoundly._

Exhaling heavily, he checked his watch before refocusing on the movie. Two and a half more hours left, give or take. _Plenty of time for things to go wrong. Or... not_ as _wrong._

* * *

Bobby answered his phone on the first ring. “What?” he snapped. “If you’re using my real number, this better be good.”

“I’ve got another job. Dickinson, North Dakota.” Sam took one hand off the wheel and gripped his cell phone, dropping his right shoulder. “A museum volunteer got... _eaten_ by something.” He paused, unsure of how to phrase it. “Possibly a dinosaur.”

There was complete silence on the other end of the line. Then: “Are you out of your damn mind?”

“Yeah, well, that’s pretty much what I said when Dean told me about it,” Sam said, trying to laugh it off. “If you could drive up and meet me at –”

“Well, tell Dean to check his sources,” Bobby retorted. “I saw that story too; the only reason I haven’t investigated by now is because it was run in the _National Enquirer_.”

Sam froze. “A – a _tabloid?”_ he repeated.

“It’s a fake story, Sam, and a shit one at that,” Bobby said, irritated. “‘Killer ghost dinosaur’? Only way anyone falls for something like _that_ is if they were born yesterday.”

“Um –” Sam felt his cheeks heat up. “Well –”

“Never mind,” Bobby sighed, exasperated. “Where’s Dean? If I can’t smack him upside the head, I need to at least give him a piece of my mind for handing out false information.”

“That’s why I’m calling for backup,” Sam said hesitantly. “Dean’s back at a motel in Minneapolis. He was kind of sick, so –”

“Let me get this straight,” Bobby interrupted. “Your fool brother feeds you some cock-and-bull story about a killer ghost dinosaur in the next state over, and he _conveniently_ can’t go because he’s got a little fever.”

Sam swallowed, wishing he could sink into the Impala’s leather seat rather than spend another minute on the phone. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Bobby sighed again, and Sam could have sworn that he heard the other mutter something that sounded suspiciously like “idjits” under his breath. “I’m not sure what’s worse: the fact that Dean is suddenly shit at lying convincingly, or that you believed him.”

“Well, to be fair, when you put it like that, it made it sound worse,” Sam said weakly.

“Shut up and listen to me, Sam,” Bobby growled. “One, you tell me where _exactly_ that motel is. Two, you find a place to turn around and you do just that. And three, call your brother and find out what the hell’s going on.”

* * *

“Your phone is ringing.”

“Huh?” Dean tore his gaze away from the television screen.

“Your phone is ringing,” Castiel repeated. “You should probably get that.”

The other’s eyes suddenly went wide. “Why?” he asked warily.

“It could be an important call,” the angel explained matter-of-factly. “And your ringtone is making it difficult to focus on the movie.”

“What’s wrong with Deep Purple?” Dean demanded, pushing himself off the couch without waiting for an answer and hurrying back toward the direction of the tinny guitar riff.

Castiel turned most of his attention back to _Titanic_ , but kept listening as Dean’s cell phone ringtone was abruptly cut off with a petulant _beep_. There was a _thud_ as something small and metal (presumably the cell phone) hit wood, followed by footsteps as Dean made his way back to the couch.

“You didn’t answer it,” the angel observed.

“Didn’t need to.” Dean flopped back on the couch and took another swig of beer.

 _For a supposedly sick person, he’s almost..._ inhaling _his drink._ “Who was it?”

“What is this, freakin’ Twenty Questions? It doesn’t matter.”

The furrow between the angel’s brow grew slightly deeper. Dean was being unusually on edge tonight – evasive, even – and judging from their past interactions, that usually meant he was hiding _something_. Whatever it was, it was a strong enough impetus to clean a motel room, get Sam to go out alone on a job, find a movie and beer, and ignore a phone call. And lie – a _lot._

_But what does this mean?_

Onscreen, a youthful, sandy-haired man – _Jack,_ ifCastiel remembered the character’s name correctly – was describing just how cold ocean water was. The camera cut back to the pale, flame-haired woman clutching the ship’s rail – _Rose,_ he reminded himself – and a flicker of doubt showed in her eyes.

Unexpectedly, the angel felt an unfamiliar emotion welling up in him: empathy.

“I – I feel sorry for her,” he murmured.

Dean glanced over. “What?”

“Rose,” Castiel clarified. “I know what it is like to be subject to the whims and will of a higher power – to have one’s destiny chosen for them.” Something tightened in his throat – _sorrow? anger? –_ and he paused. “There is a connection here, between Rose and I.”

Dean shrugged. “Art imitating life?” He raised the bottle to his mouth again.

“I believe so.” The angel inclined his head slightly towards the screen, where Jack struggled to pull a terrified Rose over the rail to safety. “Dean... Jack reminds me of you.”

The other nearly choked on his gulp of beer, but he finally swallowed it. “Cas,” he managed, his voice hoarse, “you are making less and less sense by the minute.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Castiel insisted. “You – you showed me what freedom meant, what it meant to choose your own path. You –” He stopped, at a loss for words. _Am I – am I_ flustered? _Over this?_ “Just like Jack and Rose,” he finished quietly.

Thankfully, Dean didn’t seem to notice his tongue-tied state, as he seemed to be struggling to find words himself. “Uh... thanks?” he finally offered. “At least you didn’t compare me to the fiancé.”

“Why would I? You and he have little in common. Cal –” _that_ was _his name, wasn’t it?_ “– seems like an...” The angel paused, trying to settle on an appropriate descriptor.

That same cocky smile returned to Dean’s face. “Like an assbutt.”

“Yes,” Castiel conceded, his voice tight. “Though you have pointed out to me that the term is... _nonsensical_ , at best, and perhaps not strong enough to indicate –”

“No, it fits,” Dean said, chuckling slightly. “And for the record, ‘assbutt’ is kinda cute.”

Castiel blinked, surprised. _“Cute”?_ “Really?” he asked uncertainly.

Dean chewed on his lower lip for a moment. “Yeah,” he finally responded, his voice still hoarse. “It’s – it’s endearing, okay?” As if embarrassed, he quickly turned his attention back to the movie, his fingers tightening around the beer bottle.

The angel’s gaze lingered on Dean a little longer, turning their exchange over in his mind. Somehow, the seemingly random details of this strange night were all starting to make sense, but the conclusion... was not _quite_ what he had expected.

It was, however, a possibility that he found himself hoping was correct.

* * *

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._ The word ran through Dean’s head like a mantra, distracting him from everything else. _Real smooth, Dean. Could you get any_ more _obvious?_

He’d been beating himself up over his slip of the tongue – _”slip of the tongue,” my ass; it was going to come out at some point_ – for the past half-hour or so, maybe more. Coupled with that and his beer finally running out, and he could feel his initial confidence beginning to flee.

His one consolation was that Cas hadn’t fled after his dumbass comment as well.

Dean had been (hopefully, covertly) watching him out of the corner of his eye, and from what he could tell, the angel seemed to be more engaged in _Titanic_ than ever before. Castiel had barely moved a muscle from his original position, and his eyes had rarely wavered from the story unfolding on the screen; Dean wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or jealous that the angel was staring at something else besides him, regardless of whether it was another person or not.

He almost groaned at that thought – _how much gayer can you sound, Dean? Are you going for a world record?_ But honestly, he could look at Cas all day: Cas and his tousled hair and his sharp jaw lined with dark stubble and his piercing, clear blue eyes –

 _Dude, seriously?_ Dean shook his head, bringing himself back down to earth. He swallowed, hard, and then reached for the as yet unopened beer he’d offered to the angel.

Somehow, he was getting a sinking feeling that things weren’t going like he’d hoped.

The faint, mournful strains of a penny whistle caught his attention, and Dean glanced up from wrestling with the beer bottle cap. Onscreen, Jack and Rose were intertwined on the bow of the _Titanic_ , silhouetted against the setting sun in a near-perfect tableau.

Dean was about to turn back to his task, but then he noticed Castiel. The angel was still staring at the screen in rapt attention, but – Dean squinted, unable to believe what he was seeing – the corner of his mouth was curved up slightly in what looked like –

 _Cas. Is. Smiling. And he’s smiling at a chick flick._ Dean was absolutely sure that his jaw had hit the floor somewhere along that train of thought. _Holy shit. It’s a miracle._

Then Castiel turned his head slightly, his slight, peaceful smile never wavering.

And inexplicably, Dean felt himself smile a little too.

* * *

“Well?” Bobby demanded, his voice crackling through the phone. “What did Dean have to say for himself?”

“Nothing.” Sam restlessly drummed his fingers on the steering wheel; he’d finally ended up driving off an exit and then making his way back onto the highway – going the opposite direction this time – and he had the feeling that some of his maneuvers hadn’t strictly been legal. “I... couldn’t reach him.”

“‘Couldn’t reach him’?” Bobby repeated incredulously, and Sam instinctively winced at his tone. “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I called his cell phone – twice – and then both of his backups. He didn’t answer any of them.” A part of him hoped that Dean was just messing with him, but Sam still couldn’t shake the niggling suspicion that something was wrong.

Bobby sighed, frustrated. “Well, I’m gearing up. It’ll take about four hours ‘til I reach Minneapolis, but I’ll be there.”

“Bobby, you don’t need to do that,” Sam said. “It’s probably just – I don’t know, Dean playing a joke on me or something.” _A really involved, stupid joke that would have sent me half a state away from him_ , he mentally added with a grimace.

“Some joke,” Bobby snorted, as if hearing his thoughts. 

“My point is, it’s probably not serious,” Sam continued. “If it is, I’ll call you and we’ll meet up. Just... let me handle this one for now.”

A long pause on the other end of the line. Then: “Fine. But if you _do_ walk into that motel room and find Dean safe and sound... have him call me anyway.” The threatening tone of Bobby’s voice made it very clear what he was going to do next. 

Despite himself, Sam cracked a slight smile. “Gotcha.”

* * *

Shoving his backup cell phones under the mattress – _all the better to muffle the ringtones with –_ and then tucking in his real cell phone for good measure, Dean straightened up from where he’d crouched beside one of the beds. He wished he could say he felt at least a _little_ guilty about ignoring Sam’s calls and even going out of his way to make sure that there would be no more disturbances from his younger brother, but thus far, Dean was not regretting a single thing about this evening.

Well, maybe he hadn’t exactly been Mr. Smooth at the outset, and there had been some hitches, courtesy of Sam. But last time he checked, Castiel was still there on the couch, watching _Titanic_ with that same magical, almost imperceptible smile on his face, and _that_ was what mattered.

Snatching his second beer bottle – finally open, with the cap lost and forgotten somewhere in the depths of the shaggy motel carpet – and meandering back to the couch, Dean paused when he saw what was on the screen: Jack with his sketchbook and pencils in his lap, and Rose draped over the couch, the paleness of her exposed skin contrasting vividly with the fire of her hair and the brilliance of the diamond between her breasts.

Glancing over at Castiel, Dean grinned to himself upon seeing the angel’s bewildered, wide-eyed expression; he remembered that look from the strip club all that time ago, and it was still just as amusing as ever. _And cute,_ he added before his mental filter could start working again. _Very cute._

Looking over and seeing him standing there, Castiel coughed uncomfortably before slightly shifting his gaze downwards, away from both Dean and the television. “I do not understand, Dean,” he admitted. “If Jack is drawing Rose’s picture and just doing that, then why has Rose taken her clothes off? Is she anticipating intercourse?”

Dean chuckled. _And the awkward sexual questions – even cuter._ “Cas, everyone in this movie’s wearing about a hundred pounds of crap, not counting the sticks up their asses.” He sat back down on the couch and drank some more of his beer. “Rose is probably more comfortable without all that –”

The angel considered it. “An odd explanation, but likely.”

“– and let’s face it, you probably would, too.”

It took a moment for Dean to realize what he’d said – aloud, no less – and he could feel his heartbeat speeding up in his ribs. _Did I just... tell Cas to get naked?_

Castiel blinked. “Pardon?” he finally managed. Maybe it was just his brain telling him what he wanted to hear, but it seemed to Dean that the angel’s voice was a little deeper and huskier than usual.

“What I mean is,” Dean said quickly, desperately trying to salvage the situation, “is that you look really hot. I mean,” he added, “you’re wearing that coat all the time, and while it looks great on you –” _Dean, back off now; you do_ not _want to go down that road_ “– it must get, well, uncomfortable in the summer.” He laughed uneasily, hoping that he hadn’t sounded too strange. “Ever considered just going without it sometime?”

Castiel pondered the question, the furrow between his brows returning. “No. No, I haven’t.” There was no mistaking it this time: the angel’s voice was definitely strained.

“Well, maybe you should.” _Awesome flirting right there,_ he sarcastically congratulated himself. _Just keep your mouth open long enough to stick your foot in._

The angel raised his eyes; even when he wasn’t in all-out righteous smiting mode, that intense blue gaze was still enough to make Dean feel a little weak at the knees. “Maybe I will,” he agreed thoughtfully.

Not sure of what else to say – _without sounding like a moron –_ Dean turned back to the television. He was about to raise the beer bottle to his mouth, but a rustle of fabric drew his attention away again.

Castiel had shrugged off his trench coat and, folding it over, had draped it neatly over the arm of the couch. As Dean stared, completely dumbfounded, the suit jacket underneath followed, leaving the angel wearing his button-down shirt and tie.

Examining his sleeves critically, Castiel unbuttoned his left cuff and slowly pushed it up to his elbow, almost as if he thought it would grow teeth and snap at his fingers. “This feels strange,” he remarked, fidgeting with the sleeve. “I have yet to experience the comfort imbued by wearing minimal clothing.”

Dean opened his mouth, and then closed it again, realizing he was gaping. He had not expected the angel to look ridiculously attractive with a crooked tie and lopsided shirt sleeves and a partially unbuttoned collar, but dammit, it had happened anyway. _Was Cas always_ that _toned or did I really never notice until now?_

Castiel noticed his gaze. “I must look ridiculous,” he stated, almost sounding a little embarrassed.

“No, no. You look – you look good, Cas,” Dean finished lamely.

The angel continued to scrutinize him, head tilted slightly. Then: “Why are you not following your own advice, Dean?”

“My advice about what?”

“Your advice concerning removing articles of clothing to allow for comfort.”

Dean’s heart skipped a beat. _Is Cas – is Cas_ flirting _with me?_

“Dean?” Castiel looked concerned. “Are you all right?”

Hearing the angel’s voice brought Dean back to reality. “Yeah, I’m all right,” he managed to get out. _The angel that I’m stupidly in love with just asked me to take my clothes off: just another day in the life of Dean Winchester._ “And you – _you_ are right.”

Before he could reconsider what he was about to do, Dean grasped the hem of his worn-out T-shirt with both hands and lifted it up, pulling it up over his head and working his arms out of the sleeves as smoothly as he could manage. Without breaking eye contact with the angel, Dean tossed his shirt over the back of the couch somewhere and leaned back as casually as he could.

“I feel more comfortable already,” he joked, propping his arms up on the back of the couch as he folded his hands behind his head. “Thanks for the suggestion.”

It could have been his imagination – _no, it wasn’t –_ but for a split-second, Castiel’s eyes darted from Dean’s face to his exposed torso and then back again. “That was... more than I expected,” he said quietly. “It is... no surprise that you are comfortable now.”

All Dean could do was nod mutely; he was getting the feeling that speaking was going to get a lot more difficult from here on out. _Especially if Cas is going to keep up the bedroom eyes and – well, everything else._

* * *

Lit-up highway signs and the fierce blaring of headlights passed by the Impala at a dizzying rate in the darkness, but Sam was too preoccupied to care about where exactly he was going right now. His only thoughts were of Dean, and most of them were troubling, at best.

Why in the hell would Dean pull a story out of a tabloid and demand that he go check it out? Even though his brother wasn’t a scholar by any stretch of the imagination, Sam knew that Dean was better at research and checking his sources – _much_ better than he had been tonight.

And then there was his cold. Dean might not get sick often, but when he did, it was _messy;_ when he’d started sneezing and coughing all over everything within a three-foot radius of him, Sam had no doubt that his brother was sick. Not to mention that the perpetual stubbornness and resolving to just keep going with the job and damn the consequences weren’t exactly new for Dean either.

Even so, it was looking likelier and likelier that Dean had been lying to him – faking him out for whatever reason. And he’d possibly figured out by now that Sam was on to him: hence, the multiple unanswered phone calls.

But _why?_ His brother’s motive for all this trickery was what Sam couldn’t figure out, and being just out of reach of that piece of the puzzle was bothering him immensely.

“Dean,” he said out loud, his wry voice echoing slightly in the empty car, “you’ve done a lot of stupid things before in the name of prank wars, but this one might take the cake.”

* * *

“Is there any way to... adjust the sound?”

Dean let his head fall lazily to the side. “What for?”

Castiel hesitated before responding, his eyes averted from the sight of water rushing into the lower decks of the ship. “I have heard these screams before.” _The screams and the crying and the desperate prayers of those who went down with the ship almost a century ago._ “I – I have no desire to hear them again.”

Dean nodded. “No problem.” He grabbed the remote and pointed it towards the television, pressing a button; the screams abruptly died, but the sinking of the _Titanic_ continued to play out in silence.

Castiel’s gaze lingered on Dean perhaps a little longer than he intended. He hadn’t expected Dean to take off his shirt; he really hadn’t. Now that Dean’s T-shirt was lying somewhere on the floor, however, the angel wasn’t about to complain. Despite the movie quickly approaching its climax, he’d found his eyes wandering back to Dean’s body: his chest, his biceps, his abdominal muscles. Needless to say, Dean was very attractive without a shirt.

 _Two can indeed play this game,_ he thought, surprised at his use of a human colloquialism. But it had seemed fitting in this situation: how he’d played along with Dean’s clumsy explanation of the comfort to be found in nudity in order to achieve his own ends. It was something that Dean might have done, and Castiel wasn’t sure whether he should be pleased or a little disturbed by that fact.

Catching him staring, Dean flashed that grin again. “See something you like, Cas?”

The angel swallowed; it never ceased to shock and amaze him how... _forward_ Dean could be. It was one particular quirk of humankind that he still needed to adjust to – and now, more quickly than ever before.

“Yes,” he replied, keeping his tone as level as he could. “I do.”

Judging by the emotions flashing across Dean’s face, Castiel assumed that his response had taken him aback – and perhaps even aroused him a little. _Being forward is... strangely liberating. I can understand why Dean acts like this._

“And I’ve enjoyed tonight as well,” the angel continued smoothly, trying to keep the looming silence at bay. “I did not see it before, but this was a good idea, Dean.”

“A good idea, huh?” Dean echoed, both eyebrows rising. “That might be the first time anyone’s told me that.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Dean,” Castiel said firmly. “You _are_ capable of formulating and executing plans that work well, and have proven it on many occasions.”

The other shrugged. “Maybe, but it’s not my talent.” He ticked some things off on his fingers. “Killing things, eating myself into an early grave, singing along to the radio... _that’s_ what I do best. Sam’s the real brains of the operation.”

“I imagine it must have been difficult to get him to leave here, then,” the angel remarked. “What excuse did you give him?”

 _That_ got Dean’s attention. He abruptly sat upright on the couch, realized a little too late that he had given himself away, and subsequently tried to laugh it off. “Cas, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“No, I think you do,” Castiel replied, almost blandly. “You forget sometimes that I am very observant. For example, you claimed to be sick earlier, and now you are sitting shirtless on the couch after having drunk one and a half bottles of beer, perfectly well.”

Dean shrugged. “I got better.”

“You cleaned the motel room and found a movie that, according to Balthazar, humans regard as romantic.” His thoughts were rushing out of his mind, and his mouth had no control over them. “And you found an excuse to keep Sam away, which I presume is why you keep ignoring all your calls: because they’re all from Sam and you think that he has discovered that you were planning –”

“Okay, that’s awesome, Sherlock, but I think you can stop now –”

 _A date. You planned a_ date.

“Dean.”

Falling silent, Dean raised his head slightly, his green eyes meeting the angel’s own as he waited for whatever was coming next.

Castiel paused for a moment, considering how exactly something like this could be asked. _Plainly. Honestly. How it_ should _be asked._

“Dean, are you attracted to me?”

* * *

Six words. Matter-of-fact, straightforward – and yet, oddly personal coming out of Castiel’s mouth. And strung together, those six little words somehow had the ability to slow time down to a crawl.

Dean couldn’t do a damn thing about his jaw dropping or his eyes widening as he stared at the angel, completely dumbfounded as his mind scrabbled for something, _anything_ to say or do. Laughing it off or playing dumb or cracking a joke. Giving an excuse or an evasion or –

_Or just an answer._

His breath came out in one long, slow exhale, like all the air draining out of a popped balloon, and Dean could practically _feel_ those blue eyes gazing right into his soul, the sheer intensity of Cas’ gaze on his bare skin. His mouth was unbearably dry as he opened it.

“Yeah.” An unexpected flush was creeping into his cheeks – or was he imagining it? – but Dean kept soldiering on. “I like you, Cas. I – I like you a lot. I –” _Now_ he looked away, his gaze dropping to the couch cushion and away from the angel.

“I thought this would help, okay? You and me, alone, no one to bother us...” The words were pouring out now, and he could feel his chest tightening up in response. _Shit, I_ hate _heart-to-hearts._ “I thought it would make it easier to tell you.

“It’s been this way for a while, and I – I didn’t know how to say it or how you’d react because –” a short, humorless laugh “– I mean, you’re an _angel_ , for Christ’s sake, and I’m just some dumbass fuck-up of a human that spits in Fate’s eye for kicks.”

Silence. Complete and utter silence, his bitterness hanging in the air.

Slowly, Dean looked up.

Castiel was shaking his head. “No, Dean. You’re not.” He brought his head up as well, once again making eye contact. “I did not see it when we first met, Dean, but... I know now that you are a very rare person. Someone who could change my life so utterly –” He paused, melancholy creeping into his countenance. “And the great tragedy is that you cannot bear to see that good in yourself.”

A lump rose unbidden in Dean’s throat and he tried to swallow it to no avail. “Don’t make me cry, Cas,” he managed. “Not exactly how I wanted to spend my night.”

The corners of the angel’s mouth lifted slightly in the ghost of a smile. “I will not, then.” Moving closer, he hesitated only for a moment before reaching out and gently brushing away a lone tear from Dean’s face.

“I’m holding you to that, Cas,” Dean warned, feeling himself smile a little anyway. Closing his eyes, he sat still as Castiel’s fingers traced over his cheekbone, dragging down around his jaw and curling under his chin.

Then the angel’s mouth was against his and for the second instance that night, time didn’t matter anymore.

All the tension draining out of him, Dean leaned into the kiss; he was pleasantly surprised to discover that Castiel’s lips were indeed as soft as they looked. Cupping the back of the angel’s head with one hand, he kissed him back: not hard, but just enough to make it more than chaste.

After a moment, Dean felt Castiel pulling away, and his eyes opened again in mild surprise. “Unsatisfactory?” he asked lightly, trying not to show disappointment.

“Not at all,” the angel assured. “Certainly – certainly better than the first time.”

“‘The first time’?” Dean echoed in disbelief. “Cas, if you’d kissed me before now, I think I’d remember it.”

“You were... mostly unconscious,” Castiel explained awkwardly. “And it was on the forehead.”

Dean tried to think back to a time when this could have conceivably happened. Then: “Hold on,” he said, the realization dawning. “Was this after you’d beaten the shit out of me for considering to become Michael’s vessel?”

“Yes.”

Dean blinked. _Well, damn._ “I thought I’d hallucinated that,” he finally said. “Good to know that it was actually real.”

“It was very much real, Dean.” The angel’s blue eyes were unfocused, hazy with remembrance. “But this was much more... satisfying.”

Dean felt a stupid smirk spreading across his face. “Kiss me again, Cas.” The smirk grew just a little bit wider. “Show me what you learned from the pizza man.”

Castiel snorted quietly – _about as close to a laugh as he can probably get_. And then he gripped Dean’s shoulders and their mouths met again, hard enough to make both of them fall back onto the couch. Dean’s head hit the armrest of the couch, and he winced for a moment.

“Sorry,” Castiel murmured; somehow, he’d managed to catch himself before he landed directly on top of Dean. Raising one of his hands from its precarious position on the couch, he slid his fingers up through Dean’s hair, and there was a slight tingle of energy against his scalp before the pain vanished.

Dean chuckled. “Stop apologizing.” He wound his arms around Castiel, one curling about his shoulders and the other draping over his back as he pulled down the angel hovering over him.

Castiel’s eyes widened briefly as his weight came down on Dean, but then he relaxed again. “You’ve done this before,” he observed.

Dean shrugged as best he could; it was a little hard with his back pressed against the couch cushions and the angel lying on top of him. “Practice makes perfect.”

“Perhaps,” Castiel mused; the fingers that had been intertwined in Dean’s hair now trailed along Dean’s cheek and down his neck. “But the human need for intimacy... it is built from more than our experience. The instinct is in all of us.” He lowered his head, pressing his lips against the hollow of the other’s throat.

Dean groaned, tilting his head back further as the angel left a trail of kisses up his neck, along his jaw line, and finally, back to his mouth, his stubble grazing against his skin the whole way. He tightened his arms around Castiel, then brought up his higher hand to run through the other’s hair, and the angel’s breath shuddered out against his lips. Encouraged, Dean shifted underneath him and brought up his thigh between the angel’s legs.

Almost before he could react, Castiel had seized Dean’s wrist, bringing it out of his hair and into the air above their heads, extending his arm out fully. “Patience is a virtue, Dean,” he said simply. “There will be time.”

“How _much_ time?” Dean asked pointedly. _How much time until Sam gets back and I have to explain just why I’m making out with an angel on a motel couch?_

“Time enough.” Blue eyes gleaming bright, Castiel’s fingers trailed down his neck to his collarbone, almost teasingly. “Time enough to make it count.”

Dean opened his mouth to object, but all his words were lost as the angel kissed him again, a little needier and rougher than before as his teeth grazed Dean’s lower lip. He groaned again, letting his eyelids fall and craning his head upwards to kiss Castiel back. Against his chest, he felt the angel’s heart beating against his, both gaining speed with every passing second.

And then, at the very edge of his hearing, Dean heard the door open.

* * *

The first thing Sam noticed was that there was a T-shirt on the carpet. A rumpled, slightly sweaty T-shirt right in the middle of the expanse of grungy motel carpet.

And what was more, it looked like the one Dean had been wearing when he’d left.

Sam’s eyes darted instantly to the beds. Much to his relief, no one was there. But what was far stranger was the fact that they were both semi-made.

In fact, now that he was thinking about it, the whole room just looked... _cleaner._ Neat, picked-up, organized... all except for Dean’s T-shirt on the carpet.

As he puzzled over this new development, he heard a small intake of breath. In the silence of the room, it sounded like a thunderclap.

Lifting his gaze from the dirty T-shirt, Sam found himself looking directly at the ratty, unevenly stuffed couch in front of the television. His eyes went from the beer bottles by the legs to the arms sticking out over the side to the muted movie playing on the screen, and finally, to the folded-up tan trench coat and suit jacket draped over one of the armrests.

Sam’s jaw dropped. “Dean?” he asked, dumbfounded. _And Cas?_

On the other side of the couch, there was some creaking and shifting before Dean grabbed the back of the couch and hauled himself up to a sitting position. The look in his eyes was one of sheer panic. “Sam? What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I could ask you the same question, but I think I already know what you’re doing.” Sam crossed his arms pointedly. “Or _who_ you’re doing.”

“We have not yet copulated, if that’s what you’re implying.” Castiel poked his head up from behind the couch, his hair looking a little more mussed than usual. “I assure you, there was nothing untoward going on here.”

Sam could feel his cheeks heating up. _Okay. This has gotten awkward_ really _fast._ “Um, yeah,” he managed. “Listen, Dean...” He paused, trying to find the right words to say. “What the _hell?!_ ” he finally burst out.

Dean sighed heavily. “Sammy –”

“Don’t ‘Sammy’ me! You sent me off on a phony job and pretended to be sick so you could stay behind and seduce Cas with cheap alcohol and –” He squinted at the television screen; much to his surprise, he recognized the movie. “Is that – is that _Titanic_?”

Castiel was starting to look slightly uncomfortable. “Perhaps I should leave you two to discuss this in private.” He began to get up.

“Cas, _wait_. Don’t leave. Look,” Dean said, pulling the angel back down on the couch and addressing Sam, “I’m sorry, okay? Maybe I should have told you up front, but –”

“Yeah, Dean. You should have.” Sam’s shoulders slumped; somehow, he didn’t quite have the heart to be angry with his brother tonight. “Listen, I get it. It’s just... you weren’t answering your phone and Bobby was worried –”

“Bobby?” Dean repeated, alarmed. “You called _Bobby_?”

“Well, he _was_ the one who told me that you had me chasing a story out of the _National Enquirer_. By the way,” Sam added, waving his cell phone, “he wants you to call him.”

Dean groaned. “What are the chances he’s going to tear me a new one?”

“Really likely.” Bending down, Sam picked up the discarded T-shirt, gingerly pinching the worn-out fabric between his fingertips. “Do I even _want_ to ask what this is doing here?”

Castiel and Dean exchanged glances. “No,” the angel finally said. “I don’t think you do.”

* * *

To say that being sandwiched between Sam and Castiel on a couch that was only meant to seat two people comfortably was awkward was... an understatement, at best. The fact that Sam was still not _quite_ over his deception – and kept glancing warily over at him and the angel every five seconds, despite Dean’s grudging promise that _no,_ he and Cas wouldn’t finish what they started in front of him – didn’t really bother Dean as much. He was still mildly surprised that Sam had even agreed to stick around for the end of _Titanic_ , especially considering the stressful night his younger brother had had.

Besides, Dean was ninety-nine percent sure that Castiel was reading his mind and helping him make Sam as uncomfortable as possible.

Right now, the angel was leaning into his side, with his head nestled into Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s right arm was wrapped securely around Castiel’s waist as he rested his head on top of the angel’s, breathing in the clean, airy scent of his hair. Meanwhile, Sam was focusing on the television screen with almost superhuman intensity.

Dean grinned to himself. _Get used to it, Sammy._

Onscreen, an elderly Rose was finishing her story, and there was not a dry eye among those listening. Glancing down at Castiel, Dean saw that the angel once more looked pained and sad. _Of course he is, dumbass,_ he chided himself. _He saw all these people die – twice. He caused millions of people to not be born just to save Sam and I._

“A woman’s heart is a deep ocean of secrets,” Rose was saying, her face etched with remembered grief, but yet strangely at peace. “But now you know there was a man named Jack Dawson... and that he saved me in every way that a person can be saved.”

At that, Dean felt Castiel’s hand wrap around his own. Squeezing his hand back, Dean kissed the top of the angel’s head, emotions welling up in him that he had no name for.

_We’re better than Jack and Rose, Cas. I might have saved you... but you’ve saved me._

Sam glanced over at them, worry back on his face. Despite the gravity of the moment, Dean wiggled his eyebrows lasciviously in response.

His brother sighed. “Listen, I’m happy that you two have moved past all the intense staring and awkward sexual tension, but just – just keep in mind that I’m _right here_ , okay?”

“Oh, I’m keeping it in mind,” Dean said, his wicked grin getting wider.

“Dean, I would advise against antagonizing Sam,” Castiel offered.

“You serious?” Dean complained. “That takes the fun out of everything.”

The angel’s lips brushed against his neck. “Like I said before, Dean: patience is a virtue,” he murmured, his breath warm against his skin. “There will be time.”

“Soon?” the other asked hopefully.

“ _Now._ ” Raising his head up from Dean’s shoulder, Castiel kissed him on the mouth.

Sam sighed again, his head falling back on the couch. “Jerk.”

 _Bitch._ Dean just chuckled, leaning into the angel’s kiss and giving it everything he had.

He didn’t care that Castiel would probably zap himself back to the war as soon as the credits started to roll. He didn’t care that he would have to call Bobby in the morning and explain why he’d sent Sam on a hunt that didn’t exist. He didn’t care that his shirt was still on the floor somewhere or that he was seriously thirsty for another beer. He was here with two of the people he cared about most in the world, and he was kissing one of them, and that was all that mattered.

As Jack and Rose, forever young and happy, reunited on the _Titanic_ with a sea of passengers from all walks of life surrounding them and applauding them without judgment, Dean was in his own kind of Heaven.


End file.
